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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29264490">The Primal Scene</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap'>hanap</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookitsstevie/pseuds/lookitsstevie'>lookitsstevie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Harriet and her first ASMR, Harriet as Actaeon but with much more interesting results, Ineffable Tutors | Aziraphale and Crowley as Mr Cortese and Mr Harrison (Good Omens), M/M, Masturbation, NSFT art, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Voyeurism, in which we accidentally write a Freudian commentary</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:27:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,343</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29264490</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookitsstevie/pseuds/lookitsstevie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Harriet notices that there’s a crack of light at the end of the hallway coming from the door to the library, and her mood brightens considerably. Perhaps the tutors are still here, putting together their lessons for the next day before they leave for the night. She leans down to pick up a piece of cloth that’s fallen on the rug. Her breath catches in her throat when she realizes what it is – a necktie with a familiar tartan pattern.</p><p>She nearly drops the tie in shock at the unmistakable sound coming from the closed door of the library. A sharp, quickly stifled moan.</p><p>[Or: Harriet Dowling accidentally bears witness to divine ecstasy.]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Mr Cortese/Mr Harrison (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>70</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>323</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Top Aziraphale Recs</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Primal Scene</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic was born out of a sketch yeeted by the artist at the writer without warning on the morning of Michael Sheen's birthday. Both sketch and fic were conceptualized and birthed within 24 hours. </p><p>[Hoo boy we went a little feral with this impromptu collab, please mind the tags. Enjoy!]</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The full moon is so bright tonight that Harriet doesn’t bother turning on the lights as she walks. She does this most nights after the dinner plates have been cleared, Secret Service agents notwithstanding – she makes the rounds of the corridors of the mansion, occasionally checking that a window is securely fastened, a side door to the gardens properly locked. There’s no real reason to do it, it’s just something for her to occupy herself with.</p><p>Alright, that’s not entirely truthful. A small, not entirely unacknowledged part of her is hoping to run into that gorgeous new tutor of Warlock’s. Mr. Cortese, she thinks, the heat already rising to her face at the thought of his rumpled blond curls, his thick beard always just on this side of too wild. She wants to run her fingers through it, and maybe also through the patch of golden down on his chest that occasionally peeks through when his tie is loose and the top few buttons of his shirt are undone. The heft of his forearms revealed by his carelessly rolled-up sleeves makes her mouth water, especially when he’s lifting a stack of books during his lessons with Warlock – the ripple of muscle through them leaves her weak at the knees.</p><p>Of course, it isn’t as though she’d <em>do </em>anything about it – she loves her husband, but a woman is allowed to <em>look, </em>isn’t she? Especially considering how… deprived she is these days, with Ted always being away for work. And if sometimes her dreams are populated with disheveled men with muscled thighs and blue eyes and golden curls, well, that’s not her fault, is it? It isn’t as though she has any control over her subconscious.</p><p>Harriet picks up a book that’s been knocked to the floor and places it on a nearby shelf. She likes doing this too, being able to tidy up. It makes the mansion feel a little less alien to her. Less of an imposing structure and more of a home. The guards know to expect this nighttime routine of hers by now, and they greet her politely as she goes.  </p><p>Then again, she thinks, picking up where her train of thought had left off, she has no objections whatsoever to the other tutor. Mr. Harrison is much more reserved, cool and composed especially next to Mr. Cortese and his delightful smiles that always seem to light up the room. She doesn’t think she’s even seen Mr. Harrison smile, but Harriet admires him nevertheless. He’s always so buttoned up, his stylish tailored clothes starched and pressed within an inch of their lives. He’s more meticulous about grooming, too – she’s thought a few times about that thin beard, so carefully sculpted, and how it might feel scraping against –</p><p>She clears her throat as she compulsively straightens a curtain that’s been tugged from its place, feeling a little warm. The weather’s just so unpredictable these days. She could have sworn the forecast said the temperature would drop tonight. It’s why she’s asked to have the windows shut. Not to mention how strange it is that the mansion seems to be in quite a state of clutter today.</p><p>Harriet’s nearly done now. She saves this stretch of corridor for last, because at the end of this hallway is the library where Warlock has his lessons with his tutors.</p><p>Anyway, she thinks as she rearranges some picture frames that have fallen over, Mr. Harrison is <em>clearly</em> gay. He never looks at her with anything but an assessing look in his narrowed eyes. Probably judging her taste in jewelry. She wouldn’t have a chance in hell.</p><p>Not that she would ever actually do anything other than admire the view even if he wasn’t, of course, Harriet adds hastily to herself, blushing hard, trying to distract herself by taking a closer look at the last frame she’s holding. It’s a photo of herself, Tad, and Warlock a week after he was born. An entire week before her husband met his only son! This life of theirs is wonderful, but it certainly comes at a cost. Tad’s been away far too long, she sighs, placing the frame back down on the table. It’ll be two weeks tomorrow. It’s always hard for her to sleep when he’s away.</p><p>Harriet notices that there’s a crack of light at the end of the corridor coming from the door to the library, and her mood brightens considerably. Perhaps the tutors are still here, putting together their lessons for the next day before they leave for the night. She leans down to pick up a piece of cloth that’s fallen on the rug. Her breath catches in her throat when she realizes what it is – a necktie with a familiar tartan pattern.</p><p>She nearly drops the tie in shock at the unmistakable sound coming from the closed door of the library. A sharp, quickly stifled moan.</p><p>She takes a few steps toward the door, not knowing what she should do. Maybe she’d simply imagined it? Perhaps it was nothing at all?</p><p>But no, there are definitely voices, too low for her to distinguish anything. Her heart is pounding hard in her chest, but carefully, she presses her ear to the wood.</p><p>This is what she hears: a series of sighs occasionally punctuated by a sharp intake of breath, and once, a bitten-off moan.</p><p>“Az… Cortese,” and she recognizes Mr. Harrison’s familiar drawl, though his voice is ragged and his speech uncharacteristically colloquial, “you bloody tease –”</p><p>“Mr. Harrison, surely you of all people know how important it is to be patient,” Mr. Cortese answers with equally unwonted politeness. This pronouncement is followed by another muffled groan, throaty and prolonged.</p><p>Harriet slides to the carpeted floor, no longer trusting her legs to keep her upright. Her breath is quickening in her chest as the last puzzle pieces fall into place. Warlock’s tutors –</p><p>There’s a soft noise of pleasure, followed by Mr. Cortese’s voice. “Are you... are you alright?”</p><p>“No, I’m not alright at all, because you won’t bloody <em>move, mmph –”</em></p><p>Mr. Harrison’s words are cut off suddenly, and for a while, there’s only silence in the hallway. Harriet’s trying to sort her thoughts, but this is quickly interrupted by a loud slap, skin against skin.</p><p>“<em>Ah!</em>” Mr. Harrison cries out, and Harriet claps her hands over her mouth in surprise.</p><p>“Hush, you’re going to bring the entire Secret Service down on us –”</p><p>“Heaven and Hell and all their armies could storm this room right now, for all I care,” Mr. Harrison says, every word sounding like it’s being punched right out of him, punctuated by the heavy rhythmic thud against the wood. He cries out again, his voice rasping with pleasure, and almost without thinking, Harriet’s hand slips under her skirt.</p><p>“Do be quiet, dearest,” Mr. Cortese says – think of him calling Mr. Harrison <em>dearest!</em> – and Mr. Harrison’s guttural moans are reduced to a quiet keening. Almost as though there’s something covering his mouth. Harriet’s mouth drops open as her fingers find their way between her legs, touching herself lightly through her underwear. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she registers the fact that her panties are soaked through.</p><p>The soft noises of pleasure continue, interspersed with periodic rattling thuds, the occasional thump of a book falling to the floor. Harriet can feel the floor vibrating under her, and a tiny whimper escapes her lips. She pushes aside the lace crotch of her underwear with her fingers, coating them with a layer of her own slick as she touches herself to the sounds of the lovemaking mere feet from where she’s kneeling. Her face is burning, but she can’t stop herself from picturing it. Does Mr. Cortese have Mr. Harrison bent over the old teakwood desk, taking him from behind? Does he have a hand over Mr. Harrison’s mouth… perhaps his fingers <em>in </em>Mr. Harrison’s mouth, to stifle his moaning? Oh, God.</p><p>Thoroughly distracted, Harriet doesn’t realize until it’s too late that the heavy door isn’t closed all the way, and she’s putting entirely too much weight on it, pressed against it as she is – and it swings open just a few inches, the light from the library lamp spilling directly onto her in one traitorous swath.</p><p>This is what she sees: Mr. Harrison wrapped tightly around Mr. Cortese, who has him pushed up against an enormous bookshelf, several of the books already fallen to the ground and knocked over. Mr. Cortese is turned away from her – he’s still fully clothed, but Mr. Harrison’s slender legs are bare, and his socked ankles are locked behind Mr. Cortese, his hands fisted on the back of Mr. Cortese’s shirt.</p><p>Mr. Harrison’s dark sunglasses have slid slightly down the bridge of his nose. He’s looking right at Harriet from over Mr. Cortese’s broad shoulder, and in the lamplight, his eyes are glowing golden. She’s frozen in place, kneeling on the floor with her knees spread, her skirt rucked up and her hand between her thighs – they’ve both been caught in the act, and faintly in the haze of her own need, she wonders how he’s going to react.</p><p>But to her surprise, a small, knowing smirk curves on his lips, and he turns his head until his lips are right next to Mr. Cortese’s ear. “Faster,” he purrs, his eyes still fixed on Harriet, “faster, please, angel –”</p><p>“You only had to ask,” Mr. Cortese says, at once breathless and amused, and for a moment, Mr. Harrison’s eyes slam shut as Mr. Cortese speeds up the pace, more books falling on the floor with the force of every thrust. Heavens, the bookshelf is actually scraping against the floor. Harriet bites her lip, trying to stay quiet as she pushes two fingers inside herself. She’s soaking wet by now, and her lips part in a small sigh as her fingers slide in smoothly.</p><p>“Yes, just like that,” Mr. Harrison manages between gasps, forcing his eyes open to look at Harriet again. “Right there, angel, right there, <em>ah –</em>”</p><p>She can’t help the soft noise in her throat at the naked lust in his eyes. He’s putting on a show for her, she realizes, and the thought of it makes her clench around her own fingers.</p><p>Harriet watches the way he draws Mr. Cortese to him, one hand buried possessively in Mr. Cortese’s hair. <em>Mine, </em>his hazy golden eyes are saying, <em>he’s mine </em>– before he hides his face in Mr. Cortese’s shoulder, moaning so wantonly that she’s frankly shocked the guards haven’t come running. She moves her fingers faster, matching the relentless pace that Mr. Cortese has set for Mr. Harrison, her hips bucking involuntarily, grinding down on the heel of her own hand.</p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
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  </p>
</div><p> </p><p>“Are you close?” Mr. Cortese asks, panting for breath, his voice rough in his throat.</p><p>“Yes, angel, yes,” Mr. Harrison gasps out, “don’t stop, don’t stop, there, right <em>there –”</em></p><p>White-hot pleasure floods through Harriet as she clenches hard on her fingers, coming so hard that stars wink into existence before her eyes, trying in vain not to moan aloud – but it wouldn’t have mattered, no one would have heard her over Mr. Harrison crying out, writhing in such ecstasy in Mr. Cortese’s arms that his pleasure is bordering on divine. Harriet keeps thrusting in time with the sounds of Mr. Cortese pounding Mr. Harrison into the bookshelf, unconsciously keeping count – <em>one, two, three, four, five, six</em>, riding out her own orgasm with her eyes tightly shut, listening to Mr. Cortese’s guttural moan, Mr. Harrison’s heavy breathing.</p><p>She looks up to see Mr. Harrison slumped on Mr. Cortese’s shoulder, but he raises his head to kiss Mr. Cortese, long and languid and utterly satisfied. He nestles his head against Mr. Cortese’s neck, his golden eyes alight with triumph and fixed unblinking on Harriet as she shakily gets to her feet and makes her way to her bedroom as quickly as she can.</p><p>A shower is what she needs, she decides, and she somehow manages to go through all the motions of getting ready to sleep after that – brushing her teeth, drying her hair, rubbing some lotion on her hands, before getting into the enormous bed that’s always so cold whenever Tad is away. Soon, she thinks drowsily, he’ll be home soon, and her eyes slide shut as she falls fast asleep.</p><p>--</p><p>“Morning, Mrs. Dowling,” Mr. Cortese says, beaming at her with his usual affability.</p><p>“Good morning, Mr. Cortese,” she says, before smoothing her hand over Warlock’s dark hair. “Your father will be home tomorrow, darling.”</p><p>Warlock brightens as she kisses the top of his head lightly. “Finally!”</p><p>“Not much longer now. Study hard for your tutors today,” Harriet says, and nods at Mr. Cortese. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”</p><p>Harriet pauses at the doorway to look back at Mr. Cortese, his head bent over Warlock’s notebook to check his sums and smiles to herself at the sight of her son chattering merrily away to his tutor. When she turns, she’s startled to see that Mr. Harrison has materialized out of nowhere, blocking the doorway in front of her.</p><p>“Good morning, Mrs. Dowling,” he drawls in his usual manner that somehow manages to be both polite and perfunctory at once. “I hope you had a good evening yesterday?”</p><p>“Good morning, Mr. Harrison.” Harriet just manages to keep her composure from slipping. The long years of being an ambassador’s wife have made her very good at that by now. “I did, thank you. I trust you did as well?”</p><p>“I had a wonderful evening, thank you,” he says, before he moves aside to let her pass. She walks away, relieved that they were parting with their dignity intact, but she has to press her lips together to hold back the smile that's breaking through as she hears him call to her, just before she turns the corner.</p><p>“I hope you have a lovely day, Mrs. Dowling.” </p><p>"And you," she says, glancing back to see him still watching her, the ghost of last night's smirk hovering on his lips.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The primal scene is a psychoanalytic theory of the initial witnessing by a child of a sex act. It was first coined by Freud, but we're going with the Kleinian interpretation: it considers that a child's curiosity was first provoked by the primal scene, and that typically the child felt both excited and excluded by the primal scene. Both parents are seen as locked in mutual (but excluding) gratification. [Make of that what you will.]</p><p>Come find us on our social media!<br/>lookitsstevie on <a href="https://lookitsstevie.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a><br/>hanap on <a href="https://twitter.com/contraststudies">Twitter</a> and <a href="https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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